Hanging ideas

You know, I actually kind of love thinking about photography in terms of a game of subtraction: sorta like preparing for a long journey; the less, the merrier, and then room for whatever is important. 

Minimalism is the name they give it, but for me, it’s actually about enjoying stripping an image down to its fundamentals, getting rid of all but what’s important. It’s a little about creating a house of cards: each little detail must be perfectly in its place, balanced between what you reveal and what you leave for your observers to fill in for themselves. 

“All words are pegs to hang ideas on.” (Henry Ward Beecher)

So, one morning, I was meandering through Polignano a Mare’s sweet little streets, and I saw this shot that at first seemed pretty bland. The light was bouncing off white buildings, almost blinding me, and in all that whiteness, I saw this little beauty: a simple clothespin, gently hanging off a thin thread, its form actually popping out in contrast with the white wall. All else in its vicinity was dead quiet, like sound simply ceased, and not a single soul in view. That little clothespin seemed to float in nothing, its presence illuminating simplicity and beauty in all that white.

Polignano a Mare, (Metropolitan City of Bari, Apulia, Italy) - 2013-01-11

The more I gazed at it, the more I felt I saw a whole universe in that scene! There was such quiet poetry happening, such perfect harmony. I'd find myself thinking, "Who could have left it there? Perhaps a grandma who'd just hung out the washing? Perhaps she'd lain there for days?" That little tight thread seemed an invisible bridge between then and now, between a perfectly ordinary and a chance work of art!

The best part about minimalist photographs is that they're simple. They make ordinary things — a clothespeg, a thread, a shadow — extraordinary. There isn't room for any frilly extras. It’s a soft melody being whispered, not yelled: it doesn't try to blow your mind with glitz but sort of invites you in, to have a proper look, and appreciate beauty in simplicity.

The light in Polignano is simply magical, you know? It’s not simply bright; it’s full of its own character! It dances about, transforming everything and creating a work of art out of any wall. On that white wall, even a shadow no larger than a grain of rice is a brushstroke, and each little contrast seems to have its own personality. That white that you'd assume is, simply, "white" is actually a combination of warm and cool colors, full of reflection and little secrets. And humorously enough, in all that supposed nothing, there’s a whole universe full of enchantment to discover.

What a tremendous shot! It’s simple, direct, and gets everything precisely perfect. Every little detail is in its perfect position. It’s a perfectly constructed sentence, but in a pictorial manner.

And that’s a killer photograph: having loads of expression in a little bit.

“Asleep” is not just an ordinary song. It's one of those songs that seems to tiptoe in, like a thought that creeps slowly into the mind and stays there, even after the music is over. It was not even meant to be one of the band's strong singles, yet over time it has become something of a silent cult favorite for those who love “The Smiths.”

It was first released in 1985 as the B-side of the single “The Boy with the Thorn in His Side.” Curiosity here: “Asleep” did not appear on any of the band's studio albums, only in collections such as “Louder Than Bombs” or “The World Won't Listen.” Yet despite this muted start, it has become one of the most beloved and, dare I say it, most intimate songs in Morrissey and Marr's repertoire.

Musically, it is an anomaly for “The Smiths”: no jangle guitar, no driving rhythm, none of the usual fast melancholy that characterized so many of their songs. Just a piano, played by Andy Rourke, who was the band's bassist - and that's already a little gem. The melody is simple, lulling, almost hypnotic. Time seems to slow down, as if everything stops for a moment. 

The lyrics are a different story. Morrissey sings a kind of sad lullaby, with that voice that seems to come from another time, fragile and sweet. The song is about the desire to surrender to eternal sleep, but not in a somber or despairing way. It is more like a serene farewell, a last whispered thought before falling asleep. One of the strongest phrases is “Don't try to wake me in the morning, 'cause I will be gone.” 

It is the typical Morrisseyan approach to melancholy: tender, poetic, but always with that thread of poignancy that touches the heart without ever pressing it too hard.

Its strength lies not in its complexity but precisely in its nakedness. It is a song that is not ashamed to be bare, on the contrary: it relies totally on the voice and the silence between the notes, as if it wants to leave you space to think about it, to complete it with your own experience.

In the end, “Asleep” works like this: it is a clothespin left on an invisible thread. It doesn't shout, it doesn't explain, it doesn't impose. It just sits there, floating, and if you stop and look at it - or listen to it - it tells everything.